


Absolutely Perfect

by Ilovecastiel18



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love, Love Confessions, Men Crying, Other, Self-Esteem Issues, Supportive Crowley, fatphobia, soft, some drunken asshole insults aziraphale and crowley says no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 05:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20130328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilovecastiel18/pseuds/Ilovecastiel18
Summary: Someone fat shames Aziraphale and he is reminded of Gabriel telling him to “lose the gut.” Crowley confronts the man that insulted Aziraphale and reassures the angel that he is perfect. Aziraphale/Crowley. Hurt/Comfort, fluff, angst, friendship, romance, love confessions. Mild language warning. One-Shot.





	Absolutely Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a similar fic to this, titled “Every Single Inch,” but I had Aziraphale already be bothered by how (adorably) chubby he is. In this one, I wanted to change it so Aziraphale doesn’t think about it much until someone else insults him. And, of course, there are love confessions and a first kiss at the end. Duh. Please leave a review if you like it!

**Disclaimer: **Good Omens, along with its characters, locations, etc. are the property of Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. If I owned the rights to it, I wouldn’t still be desperate to meet the man that I absolutely ADORE: David Tennant.

……….

Absolutely Perfect

……….

It had been two months since the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, and Crowley and Aziraphale had found a new routine, now that they were not controlled by Heaven and Hell. They had a standing arrangement every Wednesday and Saturday: on Wednesday they would go out to dinner, on Saturday they would sit in the back of the bookshop and get royally drunk. They sometimes did their Saturday activity after they completed their Wednesday activity. In fact, they drank every Wednesday.

They would also hang out on other days of the week, when one was particularly bored or lonely and phoned the other. When this happened, they usually ended up drinking in the back of the bookshop. Admittedly, they had a bit of a pattern when it came to their activities when they wer together.

Today was a Wednesday, which found the unlikely pair dining at the Ritz. After their dinner, their plan was to take a walk through St. James’s park and circle around to the bookshop, where they would continue spending time with each other until they felt like it was the appropriate moment for Crowley to leave and go back to his flat.

So, after Aziraphale had eaten his fill of gourmet food, and Crowley had drunk his way through two bottles of champagne, the two left for their walk, Crowley miracling the bill paid.

As they walked, surveying the river and the ducks and all the people milling about, Crowley found himself drifting closer to his friend, until heir fingers brushed. He didn’t move any further, but he was still comforted by the contact.

Lately, he had been waking up from debilitating nightmares about the burning bookshop and thinking Aziraphale was dead, and about how Satan almost destroyed the world. These nightmares happened almost every night, and Crowley had to often physically restrain himself from calling Aziraphale to make sure he was okay.

So, whenever they were together, Crowley tried to initiate as much contact as possible between them without making it too obvious that that was what he was doing.

So, he let his fingers brush against Aziraphale’s as they walked, refusing to take that last step and intertwine their fingers. He tried to work himself up to it, to explain to Aziraphale how he felt, lest Heaven and Hell come after them again and succeed, but he couldn’t find the courage. He knew Aziraphale loved him, but he figured it wasn’t in quite the same way as he felt toward the angel.

That was how they were walking when an angry looking man walked up in front of them and stared at Aziraphale with a look of – there was no other words for it – revulsion.

“You and your boyfriend out for a bit of exercise? You need it.” he spat. Crowley could tell that the man was drunk, but that didn’t excuse his behavior.

“What did you jussst sssay?” he hissed in a dangerously low tone. Whenever he was angry, his s’ sounds seemed to stretch, as if he was changing into his snake form.

“I’m saying that Mr. Sophisticated over here needs some exercise.” The man snapped back.

Crowley growled low in his throat, reaching over and grabbing onto Aziraphale’s elbow to ground himself and comfort his friend (he wasn’t sure Aziraphale needed comfort, but he did it all the same). “I really sssuggessst that you walk away now.” He whispered.

The man wrinkled up his face in a disgusted look at spat at Aziraphale’s feet, which caused Crowley to lunge after him. His momentum was only stopped by Aziraphale grabbing both of his arms and holding him back.

  
“Thisss man is absssolutely perfect. If you have a problem with the way he looksss, take it to sssomeone who givesss a fuck.” He leaned forward as far as he could with Aziraphale still holding onto him, bending so his face was mere inches from the angry man’s. “If I ever hear of you insssulting thisss man again, there will be Hell to pay.” He hissed. For good measure, he used his powers to make sure the man would lose his keys and money out of his pocket, and to make sure that he would spend several hours looking for them.

The man walked away, muttering a string of fatphobic and homophobic words under his breath. Because of this, Crowley used another demonic miracle to make sure that the alcohol he had drunk would make him sick later that evening.

Crowley straightened, causing Aziraphale to loosen his grip on his biceps. He turned around, taking his sunglasses of and using another miracle to make sure no one saw his eyes.

“You’re upset.” he stated, noticing the downcast look that was plastered across Aziraphale’s face. He was looking down at the ground, looking as if he was trying to make himself as small as possible. He didn’t respond to Crowley’s statement.

Crowley, in a moment of bravery, intertwined his and Aziraphale’s fingers, placing his sunglasses on his face and strolling quickly toward the bookshop, which was only a few blocks away. Once they were safely inside, he took his glasses off again, placing them on Aziraphale’s desk, and pulling the angel toward him.\

“That man was a drunken arsehole, Aziraphale. Don’t listen to him.” He murmured. He tried to place comforting hands on the angel’s shoulders, but he walked away toward the backroom before he could.

“It’s not just him though, Crowley.” Aziraphale muttered, taking off his coat and slipping on the sweater that he wore around the bookshop.

“Talk to me.” Crowley replied, once again trying to put his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders, only to have the angel move away before he could.

“It doesn’t matter…” Aziraphale mumbled.

“Aziraphale…” Crowley moved in front of the angel, finally placing his hands on his shoulders. “It does matter. If it’s hurting you, I want to hear about it.” he tried to look into Aziraphale’s eyes, but the angel turned away and started staring at the floor.

“Well, it’s just… the other angels have always said much the same thing. On the day of the Apocalypse, Gabriel told me to ‘lose the gut,’ and Michael is always talking about how unangelic and out of shape I am. I have taken part in too many earthly pleasures; I am no longer the angel I once was.” He whispered to the floor.

Crowley sighed and lifted one hand off Aziraphale’s shoulder, using it to lightly grasp the angel’s chin and tilt his face so they were looking eye-to-eye. “It doesn’t matter what they think.” He said, replacing his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Yes, it does…”

“No, it doesn’t, angel. What matters is what you think, how you perceive yourself.” Crowley replied, sighing when Aziraphale still looked confused. “Look, what I’m trying to say is that Gabriel and Michael and all the other angels don’t understand Earth, or beauty, or anything else of that nature. They don’t understand that a person can have a bit of a belly and still be able to fight, still be handsome; they don’t understand what it’s like to enjoy things here, such as food and books. They are looking at you from a different perspective that you or I look at you, because they cannot comprehend the different filters, different experiences, that we have lived through which shape how we see things. You do not have to look like Gabriel in order to be a proper angel.”

“And what of that man in the park?” Aziraphale challenged.

“Some humans do not have a full grasp on humanity. They don’t understand that all different types of people are beautiful. That man was drunk and rude, but he was also _very _wrong, Aziraphale. You do not ‘need exercise.’”

“But he was right, I _am _fat…” Aziraphale started to argue.

“Yes, you are. But that’s not a bad thing. Your body represents who you are, and who you are is a loving, caring, frankly _adorable _angel with a capacity for goodness that is unrivalled by any other human or angel. I have never met anyone like you, never cared about anybody the way that I care about you. One idiotic man’s opinion about you would never change how I feel about you. It shouldn’t change how you feel about yourself either.”

“But…”

“Let him have his opinions. If he wants to walk around, acting like an arsehole and insulting everyone he comes across, then let him. But whose opinion do you trust more: his, or mine?” Crowley asked. He let his hands fall from Aziraphale’s shoulders to wrap them loosely around his waist.

“Well, of course I trust you, Crowley. I have always trusted you…”

“Then listen to me, angel. I’m saying that you’re absolutely perfect the way you are. If you didn’t have your little round stomach, or your fluffy white-blond hair, or your gorgeous smile, you wouldn’t be you. And, for what it’s worth,” he pulled Aziraphale closer, taking one of the angel’s hands in his and pressing it against own his chest, just over his heart. “I love you for exactly who you are. So, fuck what Gabriel or Michael or some drunk guy in a park says. Fuck everybody else’s opinion. What matters is what you think of yourself. And I can tell you that you’re perfect, angel. I hope you believe me.” Crowley let all his emotion show in his eyes, making sure that Aziraphale knew how sincere he was.

“Do you mean it, Crowley? When you say that you love me?” Aziraphale asked quietly.

Crowley took his hand off of Aziraphale’s (the angel’s hand remained where he had placed it, over his heart), and reached up to cup his face with his palm, allowing his thumb to brush over Aziraphale’s cheekbone. “I don’t think ‘love’ covers what I feel for you, angel, but yes. A thousand times, yes. When I thought that I had lost you…” He brushed his thumb under Aziraphale’s eye, catching a tear on his thumb as it fell from his eyelashes. “I have been having nightmares lately, of finding the bookshop on fire and thinking you were dead. Of attempting to stop Satan himself from destroying you. I have always lived in the fear that I would one day lose you. And it terrifies me.” He paused. “I’m sorry it took a man insulting you for me to say it. I should have reassured you before now that I love you and that…”

Crowley leaned down and, in a moment of bravery, kissed Aziraphale lightly on the forehead.

“You.”

He kissed Aziraphale’s left cheek.

“Are.”

He kissed Aziraphale’s right cheek.

_“Fucking.”_

He reached forward and pulled Aziraphale’s face toward his, capturing the angel’s mouth with his own, lingering for a moment before pulling back slightly and looking into his friend’s eyes.

“Beautiful.” He finished in a whisper.

By now, Aziraphale was crying in full force, and Crowley gently tugged him into his chest, wrapping his arms around the angel’s shaking shoulders. “You are beautiful, Aziraphale.” He whispered against the angel’s hair.

Aziraphale cried until he couldn’t anymore, burying his face in Crowley’s shoulder. He didn’t think he could articulate exactly how bloody _grateful _h was for the unconventional demon.

“I love you too, Crowley. I always have. I am so sorry that you had to find the bookshop like that. I’m sorry that you thought I was dead. If you ever wake up and need to call me, to make sure I am okay or just to talk to someone, I’m always available. I will _always _be there for you, dearest. And, for what it’s worth…” he leaned up and kissed Crowley again, right on the mouth, trying to convey all of his emotions through that one bit of contact. “You’re absolutely perfect as well, my dear.”

**Author's Note:**

> I came up with this idea the other day, having Aziraphale be self-conscious about his weight and having Crowley assure him that he is gorgeous. I especially wanted to write that scene where Crowley punctuated every words with a kiss to Aziraphale’s face, ending with him kissing Aziraphale on the mouth. Anyway, I hope you liked it! If you see any spelling or grammar mistakes, feel free to let me know!


End file.
